


Hurry, Stone

by gogollescent



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 13:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13295511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: "Fëanor invents New Year's Resolutions"





	Hurry, Stone

His brother was tall. It didn’t smother like the rest of Fëanor’s advantages; instead it filled Fingolfin’s chest with vague, superior concern, as though Feänor were stranded at the top of a tower—a child like him—with no way to get down.

From below, his brother’s face was clearer than grown men’s faces, because he was always looking back at you there on the ground, and once you caught his eye he would never yield, if you made a struggle of it. Once a staring contest of theirs had lasted the length of a public song-duel. At the end Fëanor turned his head to hear their father’s judgment, and Fingolfin had wept as though his heart would break (his mother said, dismayed) to wash the burning from his eyes. It wasn’t shameful at the time, because after all he had won; but when prizes were handed out to both poets, and the crowd dispersed, Finwë gave Fëanor such a contemptuous, hilarious scolding, before Indis (who protested) and Nerdanel the smith’s daughter (who laughed), that Fingolfin began to feel he had cheated—and was ashamed when the king never said a word to him, as though, because he had cried, he was not yet a king’s son with a duty to the singers.

Now it was the end of Telperion’s blooming. On Túna’s eastern slope the people gathered to feast the new century, singing, and dancing, and wearing costumes of beasts, and throwing cups up in the air; but it had been a long party, and Fingolfin was tired. He sat straight as he could on his best new year’s gift, a beautiful woven blanket from his two aunts, who together owned the biggest flock of long-horned sheep anyone had on the mountain (they were always threatening to descend on the city with sheep in tow). And Fëanor stood over him, being tall: because Finwë had told him to “visit” with his brother, and Nerdanel wasn’t there but underground with the god, waiting for a spring to bubble up or a vein of gold to burst out of the earth. Fingolfin understood everything. He wished for a long feather with which to tease Fëanor’s back.

Could he make Fëanor _feel_ that a feather was there? He was about to try when Fëanor crouched and said, “Asleep.”

“I am not. I am all awake.” If he had napped earlier on Findis, that was none of Fëanor’s affair.

“What? _all_ awake, brother, and wakefulness to be held by the measure, half or full?” He was always careful to call Fingolfin ‘brother,’ but when he spoke to others it was, half-brother this, half-brother that. He loved to be right when others were not, and to make felt his will in the defense of truth, alone— When he was a little older, Fingolfin privately resolved, he would begin calling Fëanor ‘half-brother’; and then Fëanor would forget the word, wishing never to be so akin to him. “Then I say you are more awake than a stone, and more awake perhaps than a dreaming Tree, but much, much less awake than any of your honored guests.” He reached to straighten the festival-day circlet. Fingolfin underwent his fussing patiently, though he little liked the suddenness with which Fëanor touched his head, big hands blocking out the view, then hot upon his brow—ash-hot and coarse—for when Fëanor had finished with the circlet he put his whole palm to Fingolfin’s forehead, like a man smoothing a scroll. “Hmm. I have in mind to take you where you can’t offend the sight of this proud people. What say you, will we go together into banishment?”

Fingolfin had no real wish to go away from where the people were, though he had received fewer visitors than usual because it was assumed that Fingolfin saw Fëanor too rarely and wanted his brother to himself. Too much was made, in his opinion, of a few incidents in his _infant_ years when he had hardly been his own master. Already he felt a sympathy for that younger self which placed him at the far end of a spyglass, following every flash in the clear little picture, but less concerned than he might have been, because he was so powerless to help. (In fact one of the incidents had involved Fëanor setting him down at the wrong end of a new-made telescope, and attempting to disappear while he fiddled with the scope. But Fingolfin, then as now, had no fear of being abandoned, if he didn’t wish to be. Did he wish to be?)

“Let’s,” he said. “You take our blanket. I’ll carry breakfast.”

Really their man Laboth took the basket from him before they had gone to the edge of the crowd. It was strategic: Fingolfin was more noticeable, mismanaging the basket, than as a shadow at their feet. Not that they escaped notice, but the king was away at the center, and Fëanor walked with such exaggerated pomp that no one long waylaid him. He wore the blanket wrapped up like a great patterned cowry shell, and him the snail: more handsome to Fingolfin’s mind than the long tunic and opals underneath. Fëanor was handsome, but he had no taste. Everyone said so; even his mother, who never criticized Fëanor if she could help it, unless their father was unhappy or Fëanor was rude about her family—which he almost never was, these days. Sister Findis said that was because someone had told him that Ingwë hadn’t approved of the marriage. He didn’t? Fingolfin asked, and Findis said, He was overjoyed, Father says—but no, I don’t think he approved. How could he? He is king of the elves, and it changed the law.

What is the law but my enemy, Fingolfin thought seriously, while his brother hid him under the blanket when they passed the boundary-fires, and steered him through the valley, over (it seemed) endless fields of wildflowers, darned here and there with scrub. He had expected Fëanor to stop when they had gotten away from the crush, and to sit and drink rice wine and act as if Fingolfin was not there. But Fëanor kept on, and his only concession to the strangeness was to offer Fingolfin the blanket—if he had offered, mocking, to turn back, Fingolfin might have said yes, but the blanket he flatly refused—he had begun thinking of it as “his gift to Fëanor.” The steep slopes bathed their feet in the light of Laurelin, that lay low to the earth and spread, licking black grass green like a cat’s tongue digging to its pale undercoat—green lay everywhere under the outer night, his father said, the black ocean would be green if Varda grew a Tree in it. Scrub sharpened to stone plants when they had neared the shore. There was salt wind blowing throughell the roof of his mouth. Fingolfin was very tired; Laboth, who had followed silently and without even pausing to notify another attendant, offered to carry him, and let him hold the basket. It was too late to be so considerate; Fingolfin was tempted to order him back. But he must be kind to every member of his household, from the master of horse who would not let him ride at a canter, to Laboth who would not defy his brother, to his brother. Fëanor said, “I’ll take him,” and picked him up without asking, which no one ever did; and balanced him on one hip, which he was far too heavy for. Fingolfin clung grimly and shuddered when Fëanor walked on.

Laboth ran, almost, to keep pace. It was so cold and loud that even if someone had hailed them, Fingolfin might not heard; and terribly afraid that they had been hailed and gone on, he pressed his cheek into Fëanor’s shoulder, and tugged the blanket down to cover his bare ear.

“No,” said Fëanor, “listen,” but he didn’t do anything else, so through his ribs Fingolfin listened to his thrashing heart. “Have you come this way before?”

"This way" was north, toward Alqualondë. The answer was yes, in a litter hung with lamps, until they reached the city’s lamps, because he so dreaded the dark. Indis had held him on her lap and sung to him uncertainly; she was no great hand as a comforter, she always said, as if bemused to have found herself with a child in her charge; he would rather have had her than anyone. If she were with them now, she would hug herself and frown into the wind, hair teased free of its coils, and she would tell him a tale of the Journey, when for many years there had been no great sea but a forest: wind roared in the tops of the trees. But Fëanor had never been to Middle-earth, any more than his siblings had. He studied the ocean hungrily, his face empty but for its famished attention, even the smile just a fan held up to hide his restlessness—he could hold very still. He held on tighter now, fingers squeezing Fingolfin’s leg. “Let me down,” said Fingolfin without answering, and then remembered to let go, and push at Fëanor’s neck; and Fëanor did. Then he turned to Laboth.

“We’ve taken you from the celebration. I’m sorry. Leave the basket now, and we will serve ourselves.”

Laboth said, “If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I’d rather stay. I’ve already missed the mingling.”

Fingolfin bit his lip to keep from crying out. _Missed the mingling_! But of course they had, they had been walking half an hour—but he had never thought of it, because it was so dark. Overhead the stars had shapes, they were so large: little chips and thistles, and _color_ , which he had never noticed in the white stars before. It was not real color that you could look at steadily from the center of your eye. But it hovered past the rim of each star, red or gold or blue-green, as though the points of light, driven through sky, had rusted at the collar, and so the color of the sky had changed also—it was more blue, darker but more blue. It was a sight that would be there forever; it wasn’t the first mingling of the age. Fingolfin beheld it in something like despair, thinking mournfully that it was fair, like nothing he had seen—in that way searching for fear in himself, or any boredom, or (worst) disappointment. But he felt none of those, unless it were a slow-turning axle of fear—his old fear, of looking away.

Laboth and Fëanor haggled politely over Laboth’s duties and who might release him. Fingolfin said, “Why don’t you stay, but go over there?” He pointed to the cliffs, where there was shelter from the wind. “He wants to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” said Fëanor, surprised, after Laboth started to speak, pressed his fist to his mouth, gave a graceful shrug, and loped off. “I just can’t leave you.”

Yes, you could, Fingolfin thought. You would get in trouble, but you’re going to get in trouble anyway; only this way you’ll act hurt, as though you couldn’t have known it was wrong, just because you’ve never done this before. He could hardly have put this into words, and even less so words Fëanor would credit. He would never yield. Fingolfin said, “You should talk so you’ll have something to do.”

“I have something to do,” said Fëanor, “up _here_ ,” knocking on his temple. Fingolfin cupped a hand over his ear as if listening for an echo. Fëanor lunged, missed, cursed, and they ran scrambling up the white strand. Five yards and he caught Fingolfin’s shoulder; Fingolfin pounded on his hand, escaped, and ran madly downhill—too late, registered the slopping crunch of the sand beneath his boots. The tide rushed up and downed him like a deer.

He breathed salt. His lungs burned, his nose filled, he could not close his mouth for the need to spit, but the rest of his body was numb, which made it harder to stand up. He was bumping the ground. It was brighter under the water than above and blue fire sprouted from his kicks. A hand raked his scalp and lifted him out by the hair, and air scored his mouth, slashed his wet throat. He coughed, and the hand remembered something; its partner took his ankle, and turned him upside down.

Then he couldn’t think for sneezing. There were blue spirals still transfixed under the changing surface of the waves, but these faded.

When righted, he was limp, and the tremors ran on so long he should have learned to foresee them; he couldn’t. Fëanor waded up past the tideline, stripped off his clothes and set him on his feet—he sat hard, knees not so much rebellious as missing—Fëanor lifted him up, twice more, before he could stand. Then he was made to run in circles while Fëanor flailed at him with his own twisted-up short cloak. He stumbled, fell, got up, his heart beating so crazily he thought it must bring on more tremors; but strangely his flesh seemed to set fast around his heart.

On the tenth lap Fëanor told him he could stop. Now he was really expressionless. Fingolfin, in the back of his thoughts, prepared for embarrassment to crush him to a speck; but Fëanor said nothing, and without words shame didn’t come. Fingolfin was surprised—he had always thought he felt a fool when acting foolishly, and not only when his brother called him "dullard." Fëanor pinched the meat of his thumb and seemed satisfied. He spoke at last: “Alas, little prince, you’ve lost your circlet!” 

So he _had_ been unwise.

His nose started to itch, and then to run. Fëanor gave him the blanket. He huddled and knelt; his brother dropped to sit cross-legged in the sand.

At least Fëanor was almost the right height now. Behind him somewhere, behind the bend in the mountains, was the Calacirya, belching light. His black hair glinted; neither his face nor his eyes could well be seen. With the stars lifting the grey ground before him, and tree-light strung as a thread between peaks, he seemed buoyed on a flat sea of silver, the horizon raised up to the sky. The black tide itself was now coastline, of another continent: not surf pouring up and back, but surf exposed then covered by the creaming sand. All this Fingolfin noticed without looking very long, or rather, without concentrating on any one thing, but the strangeness sank into his mind: he was happy, because he hadn’t drowned, and now the pain and the relaxation of pain’s hold were interesting. Only Fëanor in the middle frightened him. He wasn’t strange; but he gave no sign he knew how small he was. He sat calmly, making trenches in sand, his other hand palm up to snatch a star.

“You like it out here, don’t you,” he said, and he pulled Fingolfin over, folding him under his heavy arm. His voice sounded as if he spoke to someone else. He was rapt, stone-faced, and gleeful, and he must—he surely must—be like this in the forge, handling something he had made. “Now will I believe that you’re awake! Luckily you inherited the resilience of our people. And lucky I was there, for if it had been Laboth he could not have borne to make you run, and you would have been frozen to a little icicle.

“It doesn’t matter about the mingling. Don’t worry. I forgot too. Time is faster out here—did you feel that? The Teleri have a different calendar. Two. One for Alqualondë, one they remember, for Eressëa. Time is a place, and places make time—you can run or walk. Things depart our time and don’t return.

“Were you very taken with the stars? I thought you might be. Out here, they spin. It’s slow, but if we stay long enough we’ll see it.” But even as he spoke, torches appeared far off. Laboth must have gone back for more authoritative reinforcements, or it had been even longer than Fingolfin had guessed. To bury the image in his mind, he thought deliberately of a pinwheel-star, fiery streamers blowing out in the wind; Fëanor saw it and shook his head, no. “Not each star alone, but the whole sky-of-stars—like if you stirred a bowl of lilies. Although…” He wiped out his drawing and began again.

“Here is what I have to tell you,” not looking at Fingolfin, but at his finger in the dirt. “Before another hundred years have passed,” he said, “I’ll do something different. I’ll change this place, I’ll burrow out from time. I will!”

“How can you do that?” said Fingolfin, because everything was changing, there and then, and his brother hadn’t done it. Or, well—Fëanor had taken him here, and rescued him from his mistake; had Fëanor changed him? “Don’t,” he added, heartfelt, and Fëanor rolled his eyes.

“You can’t stop me,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re too stupid. I thought you might not be, because everyone praised you so much, but you don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

I know you never change the right thing, Fingolfin wanted to say. You just change the first thing you can reach—‘do I leave or do I take my brother with me,’ ‘do I ignore Fingolfin or provoke him.’ It was Fëanor’s fault he had fallen into the sea. What did it matter, what did any of that matter, when Fëanor was supposed to stay? Then he would really change everything. Fingolfin had never imagined what it might be like if Fëanor lived at home, and did his smithwork and hosted his salons in the king’s house. Maybe it would be worse. Probably it would be worse. What would Tirion be like if Fëanor loved it, and went afoot and rose-crowned in the streets? He was the prince, only Fingolfin’s half-brother. But still, why didn’t he stay?

“I can stop you,” Fingolfin said. He picked up a fistful of sand and tossed it in Fëanor’s eyes.

He was prepared to accept any punishment, being too tired to wriggle away; but Fëanor didn’t move, didn’t even change his grip, though he cried out. After a moment Fingolfin realized it was words. “You—you ruined it!” What had he ruined? While Fëanor scrubbed at his face, he looked down, and saw the finished design: an eight-pointed star with ribbony arms and a hole, now, in the center.

“Isn’t that your sigil?”

“It’s _your_ sigil,” Fëanor said. He started to laugh.


End file.
